


I Have Friends In Holy Spaces

by LaikaInTheSky



Category: Dream Team - Fandom, Minecraft Youtubers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, An amalgamation of every medieval universe you can think of, Avatar-inspired, Blood Bending, Blood and Injury, Cults, Elemental Magic, Evil Wilbur Soot, Gore, Jschlatt - Freeform, Other, TechnoBlade, Technocult!!!, The show not the James Cameron film, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit Friendship, Toby Smith | Tubbo and TommyInnit are Siblings, Villain Technoblade, angsty, dream team, minecraft youtubers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27019432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaikaInTheSky/pseuds/LaikaInTheSky
Summary: In a world of elemental benders, a cult worshiping a forbidden blood bender are beginning to rise from the ashes of a thousand year slumber, all under the precarious spell of a man only known as The Blade.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade/Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 21
Kudos: 136





	1. I. An Exchange

I. An Exchange

 **The Silvervale Observer**  
_1st of Sun’s Dawn, 3E 206_  
Another body has been discovered by the city guard, mutilated and crucified at the main gate. The King and his Council will gather this evening during the Candlelight Vigil and convene a brief, respective memorial for the fifth victim this winter that has fallen prey to the unseen menace. The Kingsguard has deployed another quarter of palace soldiers unto the following districts they have adjudged an elevated risk for grave injury: the Waterfront district, the Water Gardens district, and the Reservoir district. A curfew is now in place. Residents must be indoors come sunset effective on the 2nd of Sun’s Dawn. Reprobates will owe a fine of 700 gold. 

The courier looked upon a man who rested on the edge of a dilapidated throne molded from malleable steel. Sunlight broke through the kaleidoscopic fragments of a crudely fabricated stained glass mural, littering the throne room tile in shattered reflections of deep blue and crimson. Yet not even the brilliant illumination of the Mother Star could blanch the abyss that obscured the man’s defining characteristics. 

“They’ve nary an inclination that we are the enterprise heralding these sacrifices,” said the courier. “A quarter of their guards will be garrisoned in the aforementioned districts this evening, what a vital time to strike—”

“Surely, this is not all we have to receive from you.” a deadpanned voice said from the darkness beyond which the scattered light touched.

A hand arose from an overlong sleeve, a single digit rising from a clasped fist and hushing the voice in one swift movement. Whispers entangled with the stagnant air, white breath rising from the cloak of the figure who the courier knew professionally as the First Disciple.

The First Disciple remained silent as the grave alongside his overseer, communicating through vague and cryptic hand signals that the residing jury distinctly understood. Murmurs circled the gathered members, captious words exchanged between them as their beady eyes flickered from one another back to the courier.

“What our brother insists is your knowledge of tangible information,” finally spoke the First Disciple, silencing the crowd within seconds of uttering his first syllable. “Unless have you only the simple hearsay from the Observer?”

The courier, known more intimately as Dream, braced his fingers against the rough parchment he presented to the covenant. “No, certainly not. The Observer’s . . . Erm, _observations_ are the least of what you ask of me. I bring another, a prospective disciple. He hails from Earth’s Cross — as the queen’s ex-treasurer.” 

With intent, the First Disciple descended the decrepit staircase which bled onto the main tile and lowered his hood. The dark fabric pooled around his collarbones and spilled over his shoulders, rolling delicately off his back. A pair of pensive brown eyes cut through the tension, dissecting the courier under his gaze. 

“Such an intransigent man here with you now?” said the First Disciple, a knowing grin curling on his lips. “I would like to see it.”

Dream bowed and withdrew from the throne room to fetch his prized treasurer who he expertly placed in the hallway. Wouldn’t want to be so presumptuous as to enter the Sovereign’s quarters alongside a stranger without an explicit invitation for him.

In the throne room, a loud murmur caught the First Disciple’s ear and he turned on his heel to face the third-in-command that sought his attention. 

“I still cannot believe you are acquainted with Valerie’s treasurer.” said Phil.

“I once was,” corrected the First Disciple — but in that moment, Phil glowered at him as Wilbur. “Long before I met The Blade. We were young and guileless, admittedly I moreso. He taught me many things. Hardly any of them were virtuous.”

“You of all people, less than virtuous?” said Phil in mock disbelief.

Wilbur released a dry chuckle and turned his head away from his blood brother. It was true; he was bound mind, body, and soul to The Blade’s tenets, extremely willingly. There wasn’t a rule he bent or a boundary he crossed, marked or unmarked. His faith was unwavering and to an outlier, absolutely heretical.

The doors reopened and behind the disgruntled courier sauntered in a taller, intrepid man whose eyes glinted inquisitively, the novelty of their ramshackle castle being scrutinized under his gaze. His mildly amused resting expression reminded Wilbur of the person he once knew; he could hear the echo of acerbic wit, the contagious laughter reverberating in the passageways they excavated, the clanging of gold coins in a stolen coin purse. He could feel the liberating winds of Ventus on his face as they crossed the border, fleeing persecution, he could feel his fingers grip tighter on his horse’s reins every time they passed anyone who adorned chainmail, he could feel everything that he sacrificed for the Order of The Blade, and he knew upon meeting that man’s unchanged eyes once more that he made the right decision.

“Schlatt,” greeted Wilbur.

“Wilbur.” returned Schlatt, mischievous and jubilant as ever while performing. “Long time, no petty theft. I see you’ve found yourself?”

“Comfortable and in good health, yes,” he confirmed. He could feel the impatience begin radiating off of his Sovereign, this permeance in the air that he thought only he was attuned to, and he made haste to steer the conversation toward their intended topic. “Our mutual friend has told us you wish to become a disciple.”

Unlike Schlatt’s typical nonchalant mannerisms, he straightened his posture and gave a firm nod. “I would. But you see, I’ve heard many a rumor about this. . . Organization,” he seemed uncertain of his own description, yet carried on seamlessly. “You’re blood benders.”

“Not all of us. Only one.” said Wilbur, looking at Schlatt with a grin like he was a bit on the stupid side. 

“Historically, blood bending covenants have distinct entry rituals. I do my research, Soot, as I always have. I seek to support your cause, but I’m not looking to have a heart attack before the age of thirty to do it.” 

Wilbur couldn’t resist furrowing his brows, the self-satisfaction melting from his expression. “I’m . . . I’m not the man you ought to be bartering with, Schlatt.” he said, glancing over his shoulder consciously. “His Holiness,” He swept his cloak out from underneath himself and presented The Blade, shrouded in impenetrable mystery and sat high above his disciples. 

The splintered light obfuscated Schlatt’s face as he crossed the throne room, each stride longer and quicker than the last, kneeling once he reached the foot of the steps. He was well-trained in royal etiquette, more than his younger self would have liked to have been, but he was beginning to shed that life away as well as he tilted his chin up and stared directly into the void that lay ahead. 

“Your grace,” Schlatt bowed his head. Impish snickering could be heard from the jury as they watched the inordinate exhibit of respect.

The void joined in on the snickering, his unearthed hand clutching lightly where his stomach would be. As the seconds passed, the snickering developed into chuckling, that chuckling unfolding into laughter, and soon enough the void was cackling.

Schlatt feigned an expression that would have you believe he knew what was happening, however he felt a strange sense of loss in touch. He cleared his throat and waited for the cackling to subside, the sound lingering in the far corners of the room long after the man had finished.

“I’m not royalty,” the void spoke. 

Curiosity burned within Schlatt hotter than ever, but he repressed his instincts to ask questions and moved past his error. “How shall I address you, then?”

A concentrated silence hung in the air surrounding them. “. . . Speak your piece and time will tell.” answered the void. 

Rising from his bent knees and dusting off his pants, Schlatt clasped his hands together as a proper businessman would when conducting a sale. “I was the Queen’s treasurer for five years. Since her previous one had succumbed to some variant of a Ventusian whore’s disease, she took me in as a confidant in her grief. We were friends for a long time,” he began, not skimming on the vulgarity. “Until, of course, I made a few investments which she did not see in the kingdom’s best interest. . . But it seems that is not the only reason she feared for Idlance’s integrity.”

With an arched brow that no one could see, the void nodded at Schlatt to continue, invested in his testimony.

“She seeks rebellion, I know it,” said Schlatt. “I overheard her speaking to her children — bastard children, from the King of Aurae. She revealed to them their heritage. From what I could hear, it seemed as least half of the duo was willing to take the plunge into the torturous and inescapable vortex of politics.”

Wilbur’s breath halted as he pivoted his head to view the void.

A long, drawn-out pause kept the jury on edge. 

“Have you substantial evidence?” asked a jury member.

“I can see it in his eyes,” said the void. “The truth is often too strange to disguise.”

Following a second pause, the void murmured, “Another thread has been unstitched from the fabric of their savage kingdoms. We must make haste or our momentum will be lost. Tell me, treasurer, what are the names of her bastards?”

A strange tension gripped Schlatt’s muscles as he went to adjust his posture, his joints locking momentarily with every miniscule movement he made. “Tommy and Toby.” he answered promptly. His throat felt tighter once he’d spoken.

“Wilbur.” said the void, a two-note sentence that needn’t be repeated. 

Without hesitation, Wilbur stepped toward Schlatt and pushed two hands against his shoulders, forcing him to kneel once more. He yanked the sleeves that hid his untouched forearms, revealing them to the throne room and spreading his arms on either side of his body. In his immense confusion, Schlatt made an effort to defend himself, but as his old friend stepped aside, every bone in his body froze.

His blood, once violently whirring inside pulsating veins, came to a screeching halt. An eldritch chill seized his spine and spread through his nervous system. He would have yelped if the blood in his lungs wasn’t captured by the force of nature. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, he could hardly form a passing thought. 

Wilbur approached the void and extended an empty hand, eager to please despite the history embedded in the tension between him and his ex-mentor. Before he was given a dagger or anything with a sharp edge, the void raised his hands to the hem of his hood and drew back the curtains that masked his features.

“You don’t have to address me as anything,” spoke The Blade in all his glory, the cloak he once adorned now shed, revealing a second layer of vibrant red fur that shaped around his body and cascaded to the floor once released from its shadowy confines. “You’ve given me more than enough, but I don’t barter. You are either with us or you’re against us. . . And I have a particular distaste for rats.” he hissed, unearthing a dagger that shone magnificently under the sunlight. 

Dream looked on in despair as Wilbur accepted the dagger and advanced toward Schlatt, not even affording him an apology as he pressed the blade against his forearm and began carving into his soft flesh.

A chorus erupted as Schlatt’s arms were tainted a haunting red, his exposed veins depleting, his screams muffled and unintelligible from the pressure exerted on his windpipe. All he could hear as his consciousness blotted away was one phrase, this unmelodic chanting that the birds sung along to:

“Blood for the Blood God.”

“Blood for the Blood God.”

“Blood for the Blood God.”

**“Blood for the Blood God.”**


	2. II. Sugary Sweet Sedition

19th of Sun’s Dawn

Earth’s Cross, Idlance — The Earth Kingdom.

Deep into the impenetrable night, a figure loomed among the halls of the library, pushing along a wooden cart stacked with books and assorting them into their appropriate shelves. A yawn forced itself out of his throat, tiredness gripping his body as he reached for yet another five-inch thick account of a mediocre king’s life and placed it between two books of similar nature.

Admittedly, Tommy had endured worse nights. There had been times of incessant scattering that scratched his inner-ears, reminding him of a mice issue that he always forgot these certain cruxes of the castle suffered until the last moment, or times where he had used all the spills for lighting the candle in his lantern, or times when a raging thunderstorm from the unsleeping lighting kingdom of Kerauno would keep his area of the castle lit yet full of fright.

However, what the Queen had informed him and his brother mere weeks ago could not dethrone itself from the forefront of his mind. They had always known they were her sons, but alongside that the bastards of one of the most powerful kings in the land? Sleep was now a memory Tommy only briefly considered actually having existed in his lifetime.

Tired eyes focused blearily on the titles of the books he was organizing. How long had he been at this for? Five, six hours? He left the dining hall at dusk, bidding farewell to his twin brother who was assigned to the kitchens. He wondered if Toby was asleep by then. Likely not, considering he was still a mere grunt and was often tricked into longer shifts.

If Tommy were a king, he wouldn’t allow such manipulation to take place in his palace. People like his brother would earn their keep without enduring agonizing shifts, starving their minds and bodies for the king’s scraps and a half-filled bed of hay to sleep in. 

In fact, if he were king, his brother would be his Hand, and neither of them would be taken advantage of again. 

If he were king…

He could be king. If he wished to be. It wouldn’t be a task for the faint-hearted; he’d require men, an army willing to pledge itself to his cause, whatever that may be — which he really thought he ought to figure out. The foundation of any kingdom is hope, but what would he advocate for? What would he condemn? He had little to no experience in politics, only listening to the occasional Council meeting through cracks in the cobblestone, and those conversations always sounded too diced and echoey to properly deconstruct. Without a third eye opened and witnessing the people’s struggle, what they yearned for most, he was left astray in the sands of confusion and desolation.

Now haphazardly placing books and scrolls on the shelves, Tommy began configuring his ideals. He believed in fairness, more importantly a balance between the moral and the corrupt, because surely you must have remnants of both good and evil if you’d like to understand and rework the functions of a society. Compromise was also a necessity, you very well couldn’t rule without it, lest you wish to dictate rather than oversee. There was also —

“Tommy? Tommy!” A small voice called from faraway, pulling Tommy out of his thoughts. 

Skittishly jerking away from his cart, Tommy spun on his heels and made eye contact with his twin brother. “Tubs, you scared me,” he exhaled. “What are you doing here? It must be well past midnight,” 

“I brought you marzipan,” said Toby with wide-eyes. It was then that Tommy noticed his brother’s opened palms, which held a plate with four star-cut slices of the chocolate-covered confection.

A smile flickered on the corner of Tommy’s mouth. “You didn’t have to,” he said as he reached forward and accepted the plate. “But thank you. Slow night in the kitchens?”

Visibly relieved, Toby gave an enthusiastic nod. “They let me leave early. I told them I could keep going, but they insisted.” Without asking, he circled around his brother and clutched onto the cart, lifting himself off the ground and situating himself on the top shelf. 

“How nice,” said Tommy as he cast Toby a look of slight disapproval, yet made no attempts at shooing him from his place. “I take it you nabbed these before they noticed, then?”

“No!” shouted Toby inadvertently, the sound reverberating off the marble floor. “They were scraps from dinner. Anyone’s allowed to take those. I made them, anyway, I have the right to take them as I please.” he said matter-of-factly and shuffled on the shelf, rustling the cart and knocking two books astray. 

Breaking one treat in two and placing one half in his mouth, Tommy kneeled down and collected the fallen books, stomaching a pleased sigh as he felt the sugar and chocolate melt onto his tongue. He couldn’t recall the last time he had tasted something so light and sweet — a great deal of his suppers were hardy, like thick broths and tough meats, which were a blessing on their own. Most boys like him were rarely so well fed. 

“Sorry,” murmured Toby. “Hey, do you want any help? I’m hardly tired. Ty gave me sun tea for later, but I wanted to see you so I brewed it early, so I’m all spry and such.” While normally Tommy would correct his brother’s strange mangling of their language, he chose to disregard it that evening. 

“Sun tea, huh? You didn’t happen to bring any leftovers of that, did you?”

Sun tea was your average cup of black tea spiked with multiple energy-inducing herbs, like maca and ginseng. Its taste was questionable but its results were not. Theoretically, one could remain alert for days on end after drinking three cups. Tommy prayed this would not occur in his brother’s instance. 

“I could go and get some,” offered Toby, always eager to please.

Tommy raised a hand and waved the thought off. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

A pause came along, only the miniscule rumbling of the wooden cart and the soft wind against the stained glass windows separating them from a world of silence. The quiet was welcomed by both parties as Tommy skirted along the aisles and enjoyed his treats while resuming organizing. The company kept his thoughts from wandering to the conflict which lay waiting outside the library, something that he suddenly felt comfortable ignoring as he watched Toby swing his legs back and forth, gently disturbing the cart, and whistle along to his own rhythm.

Although he was very technically the younger brother, Tommy had instilled within him a protective nature toward Toby; his older brother was a pudgy, wide-eyed, and soft-bellied bird that was almost jarringly unbelonging in such a perilous world — but in spite of his sanguine temperament, he was well-read and knowledgeable, bearing an eidetic memory, certainly not flightless. Still, his untouched optimism couldn’t be risked by outside interference, so Tommy had always kept him close.

After Tommy had noticed in his peripheral vision Toby performing the ritualistic act of scratching his face, this nervous habit that often left his skin reddened and irritated, it was evident that his brother’s gift was the precursor to another conversation.

“What is it you’ve come to talk about, then?” sighed Tommy, standing on the second shelf as to place a book on the seventh, which reached only one inch above his capabilities.

“Hm?” hummed Toby through his whistling, “Oh — ! You can ignore me, Toms, just thinking is all…”

“Thinking about what?” 

There really was no avoiding confrontation, at least with Tommy, so Toby stole half a marzipan as compensation for being prodded and began talking with a mouth full. “I’ve been thinking about what the Queen told us,” Even though she was their mother, Toby had never learned that it was safe to refer to her as such whenever they were alone. “And I know you have, too.”

“I have,” confirmed Tommy as he dropped down from the shelf. “What do you make of it all?”

“. . . I don’t know. Maybe that it was a bit pointless for us to know,” admitted Toby. “It isn’t as if we could act on anything. We might be the sons of a king and queen, but that doesn’t change the fact we’re their bastards.”

Tommy anticipated this. His brother was incredibly smart, he’d make a fine ruler in any capacity, but he was far too pacifistic to even consider a role that involved bloodshed, and in their case it wouldn’t be a possibility, it’d be a guarantee. 

“We’re in a special position,” said Tommy, hesitating on his words before he said them. “The only thing separating us from either throne is the fact that our parents weren’t wed when we were born, and we aren’t split between two worlds. Both of them are royalty.”

“It might not matter, still,” said Toby. “I don’t think the other kings would see it like that, nor would any lord or lady. Are you. . . Entertaining any ideas of. . .?” He seemed reluctant to give what they were talking about any label, in fear someone may be eavesdropping.

“Rebellion,” finished Toby.

A frown laced Toby’s features as he pondered in silence for a long moment. 

“That isn’t a good idea,” he finally said.

Tommy sighed. “We have just as much claim to the throne as any of his other children, perhaps even more, considering his wife was a lady before they wed.”

“Do you not remember the story of Young Adam?”

Recollection filled Tommy’s gaze and he released an exasperated whine. It wasn’t that he expected this conversation to go smoothly, or even advance past the implication that they usurp the king of Aurae, but he was desperately hoping he could avoid being taught a lesson.

“I do, but that—”

“Adam was only ever a boy,” began Toby. “His life was small and quaint / He very rarely felt joy,”

“Toby—”

“Until one day / He went to seek / Something he would rather be. In the land / of brimstone and sand / He found a man / Who yielded his plans. That man said, ‘Boy, treasures lie beyond the tide’ / So he ventured out / To the land of sea / Where he found a king / A king that ruled terribly.”

Tommy slumped, listening halfheartedly to his brother recite the epic poem that their old keeper Ty would tell them as children. It was unsettling, listening now, as he realized just precisely why they were told such intricate and specific stories. 

The rest of the poem went as such:

“The king was not cruel,

nor was his fist iron,

but his shoulders were slumped, _(Toby gave a disapproving look.)_

and he was never inspired.

Not by the crashing waves 

or the chant of choirs,

not by worship or praise.

What did lift his gaze

was the arrival of a man,

who crashed through taverns

in pursuit of adventure;

of ale and mead and swords and wyverns,

obsidian portals and ghastly whispers.

Young Adam challenged the king,

his blood muddied and grey,

for the kingdom’s heart 

on the stormiest day.

The two joined on the Great Hill

on a warm Sun’s Height morning,

when the winds howled louder

than wolves in their yearning.

drawing their blades,

the steel clashed when lightning struck,

dicing the falling rain

and dividing their fate.

When the king felt his bones

give way beneath his skin

and his labors return to dust

it was his kin who rose to defend.

Out of the blue, a precipice formed,

a great big orb that shattered the encumbrance of the storm.

As tentacles climbed from the depths

of the deepest, darkest hells

and an eye so large 

it could perceive the whole world.

Young Adam was bewildered,

yet his stance did not falter,

and as he gazed at the monstrous beast he realized

that some fates, yes,

some fates are worse than others.

He swung and swished and groaned and moaned,

his prayers rampant from sins unatoned,

and he stabbed and he tore but no holes could be bore.

It was the giant squid who grabbed him with one arm

and ogled him with his eye, observing, admiring,

human determination in even bastard boys.

His arm tightened and squeezed until Young Adam was limp;

his sword fell and lost, his gaze cold as rock.

The king summoned the beast and lowered was the boy,

who had shrunken in his death

and the king said, ‘Let there be peace, let there be glory,

let there be new life and let this day be a story.’

A story it was, 

of a bastard boy who could find many things,

but to challenge a pureblood king 

whose roots began deep within the earth

was not one.”

When Toby had caught his breath and watched his brother expectantly, he did not receive the response that he’d have liked to.

“That isn’t real,” said Tommy. “A boy fighting a king and being defeated by a giant squid?”

“Anything is possible,” responded Toby defensively.

“It’s made up to scare us, Tubs. Things like that don’t happen. Water benders make meals out of squids, even the giant ones.”

Feeling like he’d discovered a fallacy, Toby pointed a finger. “But Young Adam wasn’t from Eidothea! He was from Sethlan, he was a fire bender! Naturally weak against squids!”

“Gods above, you really do believe it, don’t you?”

“It might’ve been embellished a bit,” admitted Toby. “But the moral is the same: boys like us pale in comparison to real kings.”

“Young Adam was a literal bastard, though, and we aren’t. That’s what I’m saying. We’re purer blooded than the king in that story.”

“That’s real close to treason, you know,” said Toby with a wary note in his voice. He’d begun itching at his dry skin again. “If we lived in Eidothea it’d be treason. We could be thrown in a dungeon and locked away for a century just for entertaining the thought of that.”

Tommy grimaced at the subtle scratching noises. “Well, if we’re so close already, why not take the plunge and go all the way?” he mused.

Unamused, Toby stared at his younger brother, his fingers twitching against his cheeks as he continued itching. “Stop. They would kill us.”

“You and I are royalty,” said Tommy firmly. “We’re the sons of Queen Valerie of Idlance and King Julias of Aurae, rightful heirs to both thrones and protectors of the earth and plant kingdoms. Tubs, you and I are princes, and we were born to be kings.”

Toby’s head shook back and forth in denial. “You’re a bookkeeper,” he whimpered. “And I’m a confectioner.”

“What happened to the Tubs who stole marzipan from the kitchens because he had an inherent claim to them as their maker?” challenged Tommy, “Could’ve sworn I saw him not too long ago.”

“Those are sweets,” hissed the older brother. “You’re talking about usurping one of the most powerful kings on the continent.” The itching grew more frantic, his nails scraping hastily against the skin and drawing blood in the most affected areas. Unable to witness anymore of Toby’s nervous habit, Tommy reached forward and clasped onto his brother’s wrist, slowly drawing it away from his face.

“I’m not talking about it,” he said quietly, the mood shifting from agitated to deadly calm as he met his brother’s gaze. “I’m going to do it, Tubs. I’m staking a claim. At the Spring Welcoming.”

The Spring Welcoming was an event that took place in the early weeks of First Seed in the heart of Idlance. Every person who ruled even a crop of grain attended. He decided while his brother recited the poem what exactly he would do — stand on the festival stage and in front of the crowd, proclaim himself and Toby the princes of both kingdoms, asking their mother’s men for their pledge to his cause and the people’s trust in them as rulers.

“That’s an entirely stupid idea,” deadpanned Toby. “The Queen might spare you, but I very much so doubt that King Julias will.”

“He’s our father,” said Tommy, “And we have just as much claim to his kingdom as his other children do.”

“I’m not with you on this.” 

Although he could’ve seen this from a kilometer away, Tommy still appeared wounded by this statement. It was said so coldly, without hesitation. There wasn’t a reservation in Toby’s mind that they weren’t strong or prepared enough for the weight of two worlds on their shoulders, and while Tommy could understand the inklings of doubt, he felt like they’d been training their entire lives for this very opportunity. 

“All those stories,” began Tommy. “Young Adam, The Axe and The Sword, A Boy Who Lived Under, they’re ours, Tubs. They were told to us so we wouldn’t fight back, but it doesn’t have to be like that anymore. We can change them. Our life can be a story,”

“You sound mad.” interrupted Toby.

“I am. I’ve been driven to melancholia by a life lived in darkness when the light was just beyond my reach. Aren’t you mad, Toby?” he inquired.

Toby hopped off the cart then and came eye-to-eye with his brother. Tears were accumulating on his waterline and he felt his cheeks begin glowing from the redness. He lowered a hand onto Tommy’s shoulder and pulled him into an embrace.

“Mad kings aren’t what the world needs, Tommy,” he said softly.

“That’s not — I don’t mean like that.”

“The world needs people like us, as we are now. Bookkeepers and confectioners. Boys who know their place. We keep things turning just as much as the men with silk cloaks and golden crowns do.” 

Reaching around Toby with both arms, Tommy melted in the embrace despite himself. He knew what his older brother was saying, but it didn’t change the tune that was plucking at his heart strings, reverberating throughout his core. 

“Why did she tell us, then?” whispered Tommy, his cheek pressed against Toby’s shoulder.

He felt Toby sigh, this steady rise and fall of his chest. “Perhaps as a gift. Maybe we’ve been doing good, Tommy, and she thought we deserved to know,” he reasoned. “Maybe it was for peace of mind. But I don’t think she meant rebellion. It would fracture all the kingdoms, even plebeians like us can realize that.”

Tommy felt the desperate ache of wanting to correct Toby, the words there but the willingness to say them lost. 

They had done almost everything together. Up until they were assigned separate jobs they were conjoined at the hip. He couldn’t imagine braving something as harrowing and gorgeously nightmarish as war without his brother.

As Toby gave one affirming squeeze to Tommy’s torso and bid him goodnight, Tommy once more faced his cart and the dozen or so books remaining. He scrutinized the sheer size of the library, then the small light of his lantern that illuminated his aisle, which bled through empty gaps in the books and unto the floors of neighboring aisles, and as he listened to his older brother’s footsteps fade he figured that even a single flame could pull any story out of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That took a minute! Sorry for the wait all, I have the worst writer's block when it's the least convenient. Also, you'll have to forgive me for the rampant self-indulgence you found in this chapter, but is it really that bad if it serves the plot? I think not.
> 
> This is chock-full of dates and places that I hope I'm doing an alright job of making sure it translates well. Just before anyone mentions it: yes, this universe shares (*coughs* steals) the Elder Scrolls calendar — and also, the earth and plant kingdoms are separate, I swear! Everything will be explained in time (; In the meanwhile, I was considering starting a lore blog/page/whatever if anyone was interested, because there's plenty to discuss. 
> 
> Anyway, here's hoping the next chapter doesn't take a month and a half to write! Thank you for reading and please, make sure to leave your blood offering at the sacrificial altar before you go.


End file.
